


What Happens at the Con...

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Castiel is Not Oblivious, Castiel is a Tease, Dean Is Bad At Introspection, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Episode Tag, Episode: s05e09 The Real Ghostbusters, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 17:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2200575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn’t as though it hadn’t occurred to Dean before to think that -- maybe -- perhaps -- just -- possibly the odd guy -- was -- hot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happens at the Con...

_Y’know, Cas, you’ve got a really nice ass--_

Yeah, right.

_Hey, there, Cas. I was thinking maybe you and me could---_

Hell, no.

_So, Cas, at that con we got stuck at, I met these guys--_

And then spend the next two hours explaining what the hell a ‘con’ is when he’s not sure he knows himself.

Dean groans and drops his forehead on the book in front of him, closing his eyes. He’s supposed to be reviewing the procedure for hunting gremlins: real ones, not little ‘don’t feed ‘em after midnight’ furries. Apparently these are something around three foot tall, more armor-plated than furry, and really love bone marrow. 

Which they extract with their tongues. 

Their four-foot-long, shark-tooth-tipped tongues.

Fun times.

But is he thinking about the average tongue length of a gremlin? Well, he’s thinking about tongues -- but that’s about as close as he’s gotten in the past hour.

Sam had gotten disgusted and left him on his own an hour before _that_ and Dean only hopes that when he deigns to show up again, Sammy brings food with him. He’s starving and it’s pissing down ice outside and the nearest pizza place is across the street and down the block.

Dean takes a deep breath, pulls himself back up to sitting, and stares down at the page again. The left-hand page is a full-size woodcut of something that looks like a seriously pissed aardvark with a four-foot tongue tipped with a tiny spear of bone. Tomorrow’s gonna be an _awesome_ day, he can tell. 

He studies the thick, blocky text on the opposite page and it doesn’t take long for his thoughts to wander.

And when they do they go right back to the same place they’ve been fucking _magnetized_ to for the past two weeks: those two...well, he’ll be kind and call ‘em nerds at the 'con,' pretending to be him and Sam. Them spending their time pretending to be him -- well, pretending to be _both_ of them, right down to fucking _dialogue_ \-- that was...yeah, okay, it was really weird, but it doesn’t bother him if he doesn’t think about it too much; they'd turned out to be pretty good back-up in the end and, hey, really, who the hell is he to go around telling people they spend their time doing weird shit? -- but when the little guy had said they were more than friends. 

That bothered him.

And for a couple days he’d figured it was because of those friggin’ _stories_ Sam found that are, quite honestly, fucking _nightmare_ fuel. And then those guys had been one more thing on top of a damned long day and -- yeah, the whole thing kinda backed up on him. No big deal. It’d happened before that something from a hunt wouldn’t leave him alone for a few days. It’d pass.

But it didn’t.

It kept coming the fuck back.

And he couldn’t figure out why until it dropped in his lap while he was dozing off one evening: they’d looked happy. Those guys had looked really, honestly _happy_. They leaned into each other like it was comfortable, warm, something they both trusted. Something they both knew they could just reach out and _have_.

And _that_ sticks with him. 

He tries to bring it up to Sam once or twice but it always ends up sounding awkward and weird and Sam just stares at him like John had the one time he brought this one kid he thought he might, maybe, possibly like back to their shithole apartment after school. 

The boy -- Phil? Larry, maybe? Or Brian? Dean honestly can’t remember -- had been quiet, didn’t seem disgusted by the rough ‘n ready state of the apartment, or the fact that Dean didn’t have his own room. They’d just been sitting on the couch, watching the tail end of some movie on the free cable he’d bootlegged from the apartment next door.

Dean still doesn’t know what John had seen to make his expression twist like that; it wasn’t like they’d been making _out,_ for fuck’s sake; they’d been sitting there watching a movie. As far as Dean remembers, they hadn’t even been _touching._

Well, whatever. He’d never risked it a second time, that was for sure. 

And it wasn’t that it hadn’t occurred to him that he’d thought -- David? maybe it had been David -- was ...sorta ...good-looking. His hands -- for some reason, Dean remembers his hands vividly: narrow, slender fingers, pale brown, scarless skin -- had featured in a couple late-night spank sessions but hey! Everyone’s attention wanders sometimes, right?

And it hadn’t really occurred to him after that.

Except -- well, okay, _maybe_ there was one time -- that bar in Oklahoma and the guy he’d started a pick-up pool game with, meaning to win food money for the next week. Dean hadn’t gotten any money -- but he had gotten more free rounds of beer than he liked to think about and the end of the evening was a little -- hazy. He knows he ended up back in his own bed but what happened between the bar and the bed is a bit...rough around the edges and he thinks he remembers hands -- maybe even a mouth -- in some...key areas.

It isn’t that it hadn’t occurred to him before-- okay, fuck, if he can’t even _think_ the words to himself this isn’t going to go very fucking far. 

He takes another deep breath, holds it, and closes his eyes. It isn’t as though it hadn’t occurred to him before to think that -- maybe -- perhaps -- just -- possibly the odd guy (just one here or there!) was -- hot.

There.

He got there.

A full-on self-revelation.

Awesome. Just what he fucking wanted.

Not that it gets him any fucking further because he _knows_ damn well why this won’t leave him alone. 

That boy in high school, the guy at the bar, -- okay, yes, and the EMT at that hospital when Sammy got food poisoning that one time, and that poor fucker he hadn’t been able to save from a rusalka a year or so back and -- and -- 

Dean grits his teeth and forces himself to finish the sentence, hoping that maybe this time the tiny thrill in the pit of his abdomen won’t be there.

\--and Cas.

Nope. It’s there, all right; a small warm wriggle of...of _something_ that he is _not_ prepared to deal with.

Cas is -- _he_ thinks Cas is -- hot. The eyes, the hair, the smile, the hands -- they make his mouth dry, his fingers tingle, and his stomach churn like he’s back in fucking high school.

He opens his eyes and glares at the woodcut as if it personally is responsible for this. There’s a spot of moisture on the page that he wipes away without thinking about it -- then another, then another. They’re warm. Kind of sticky.

Fuck. He hadn’t even gotten to finish the chapter.

The gremlin’s grinning at him from the chair on the other side of the cheap wooden table, tongue hanging sloppily out one side of its mouth. It’s about three feet tall, blocky, and looks like a corpse that’s been left unburied for about a month. Doesn’t smell much better.

‘Nice,’ Dean says and lunges sideways for the machete on the foot of his bed.

The gremlin is faster, dropping off the chair and -- Sammy _really_ needs to remember to tell him details like this! -- sending its tongue out like a whip to wrap around his forearm.

Dean grunts as the sharp tooth scratches his arm just above the elbow, drawing blood that starts to run in a steady trickle. The gremlin makes a growling sound and starts to slurp at the mess, not quite letting him go, but loosening its grip so a coil of tongue can slide down and slither around in his blood. It’s slimy and hot and he _really_ wants it off him.

‘Jesus-- _ugh--’_ Dean twists himself around, yanking the creature with him by its tongue, and grabs for the machete handle.

The gremlin snarls at him and the tongue tightens and _yanks_ , solid as a rope and Dean stumbles and falls. His fingers slip off the machete and the woodcut had _not_ included four-inch retractable claws.

‘Fuck!’ Dean tries to roll out of the way and misses the brunt of the strike, but whacks the side of his head against the leg of the bed, hard enough to make his ears ring for a minute.

The minute is enough for the gremlin to jump on him and it’s as heavy as a big dog and smells ten times worse. Everywhere Dean tries to grab it is slick and slimy and he can’t even buck the thing off. It’s got the claws of one fucking big _paw_ in his shoulder and that blood-smeared, tooth-tipped tongue is waving around _way_ too close to his face.

He really didn’t want to have to do this but-- ‘Cas! Could use some help here!’

Dean gets a grip on the thing’s back leg just as the familiar rush of air goes through the room and the gremlin is picked off his chest as easily as if it were a terrier.

Castiel holds the gremlin at arm’s length, looking at it with a slight tilt to his head as though it were some particularly interesting book Sam had handed him. ‘This is the problem?’

‘Yeah -- yeah, _that’s_ the fucking problem all right.’ Dean scrambles to his feet, doing his best to ignore the thudding pain in his head and scrabbles for the machete. ‘Just -- hold it out, okay?’

Castiel grips the squirming, hissing creature by a hind leg and Dean decapitates it. In the end, it’s that easy: a flood of foul-smelling grey blood over the carpet, the thunk of the head hitting the floor, and...done.

Dean sags back onto the bed, giving the rest of the room a suspicious once-over just in case any more corpse-blue nasties want to spring out of thin air at him. There aren’t any. The beds are built flush to the floor so he doesn’t even have to bother bending over to check.

Castiel drops the corpse onto the sodden rug and wipes his hands fastidiously. Except after he does it the carpet is clean and the corpse is gone.

‘Thanks.’ He hadn’t gotten to calculating the cost of that on their bill yet but he’s just as happy not to have to bother.

‘You are injured--’ Castiel kneels down beside him, touching the wrist of his bloodied arm gingerly.

Dean peels away the torn cotton of his t-shirt and grimaces at the gouges underneath. ‘Yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.’ And the shirt’s gonna be for the trash, too.

‘What did you want me for?’ Castiel asks, resting his hands on his knees and looking up at him as though waiting for Dean to give him the first-aid instructions. 

‘What?’ Dean frowns at him. Hadn’t it been pretty frickin’ obvious what he wanted Cas for?

‘You were going to summon me. Before the creature appeared. Was there something you needed help with?’

Dean’s mouth goes dry. ‘I -- you heard that?’

‘I felt that you wanted me,’ Castiel responds calmly.

 _Oh. Jesus._ ‘Uh -- I -- was -- just -- I --’ Dean’s downright _grateful_ when he moves his arm and blood starts to seep down his elbow again. ‘I should really take care of this--’

‘Do not move.’ Castiel presses his hand on Dean’s knee and and is digging out the first-aid kit from Dean’s bag before Dean can say anything.

Dean sits where he is, unable to think of anything else to do. Castiel’s tearing open an antiseptic wipe and then -- oh, fuck -- rolling up Dean's sleeve, warm fingers brushing over the curve of his bicep and--

‘Y’know, it’s okay, you really don’t need to--’ Dean jerks up to his feet, putting out a hand to take the wipe and ending up with his fingers tangled in Castiel’s when Cas pulls back in confusion. 

‘It will be easier for me to take care of than you.’

‘Yeah but I mean,’ Dean fumbles. ‘-- look, I’m sure you -- you’ve got somewhere important to be and I--’

‘Dean.’ Castiel relinquishes the wipe but doesn’t let go of Dean’s fingers. ‘What did you wish to talk to me about?’

‘I--’ Dean’s mouth dries up again. It’s insane. This whole thing is completely ridiculous. His _life_ is completely fucking ridiculous and he cannot _seriously_ be standing a foot away from an embodied _angel_ \-- a servant of the goddamned _Lord_ \-- and be thinking that Cas has a sweet mouth. 

He wrenches his eyes up to Castiel’s with an effort and stares at him hopelessly for a minute. There’s no way -- no way in _hell_ and Dean should know! -- that he can say this. And even if he does manage to get the words out somehow, what’s Cas going to do? Laughing in his face is about the kindest thing Dean figures he can expect. There isn't a single thing he can say -- none of the sentences he's managed to hash together can possibly make Cas understand what's in his head. There’s no way he can stand here stone-cold sober and bleeding and say-- ‘You bastard.’

‘Excuse me?’ Castiel blinks at him.

‘You _fucker--’_ The clarity is so sudden it damn near makes his head ache again. He’s so right he can practically fucking _smell_ it. Cas isn’t going to get him with that _I’m so innocent_ look this time. It’s all there in those blue eyes and why the hell hadn’t he noticed it before! ‘You sonuvabitch!’

‘What?’ Castiel blinks again and takes a step back.

Dean takes a step forward, matching Castiel so that when Cas ends up with his back pressed to the table, Dean is nearly nose to nose with him.

‘You know goddamned well that I’ve been sitting here eating my fucking heart out--’ Dean grits out, feeling his cheeks flame hot and glaring at Castiel as hard as he can because if he stops, if he stops glaring for as much as a _second_ \-- he’s going to start laughing. 

There’s adrenaline and desire and relief and a whole bunch of other shit he doesn’t have the time to think about right now chasing itself around in his chest. Castiel has never had much of a poker face despite Dean’s best attempts to teach him and it’s cracking in a thousand places now. ‘You _know_ exactly what the fuck I’ve been thinking about for the past fucking three _weeks,_ you -- you -- you goddamned _asshole!’_

The corners of Castiel’s mouth twitch and he lifts a hand towards Dean’s face, but hesitates. ‘I -- wanted to hear you ask.’

‘Fucking goddamned---’ Dean bites off the rest of what he’d been about to let stream out of his mouth because Castiel’s face is closing down, his eyes going dark and hidden, and damned if Dean’s going to let that happen. He grabs Castiel’s hand, presses it against his cheek, and tries not to let himself lean bodily towards him. _‘Yes,_ okay? Yes, you -- fucking -- feathery jerk. I’ve -- I’ve fucking _thought_ about you, about -- about _us_ \--' God, that sounds so _stupid_ , but Castiel's eyes are warm and dark blue again, his expression open and soft and Dean suddenly doesn't care what he has to say; he just wants that _look_ to stay on Cas' face. 'I thought about -- what it'd be like if...if we -- if we--' He takes a breath and tries again. 'Look, I've goddamn well _dreamed_ about you, okay? So -- so are you fucking into this or not?’

Castiel stares at him for a long minute and -- smiles. It’s such a straightforward expression that the feeling like getting punched over the heart is a complete shock to Dean. ‘You have such a gift with words.’

‘Oh, fuck you very much---’ Dean is starting when Castiel leans forward and kisses him.


End file.
